The Illusion of Vision
by SaraBarns
Summary: Everyone knows Antonio Fernandez Carriedo is the attractive lead role in the latest Sci-fi romance. Everyone also knows Romano wrote the best-selling book on what it's like to be blind. But... "Just Antonio" doesn't know his new blind friend, Lovino Vargas, has a pen-name. And... Lovino "Not Romano" Vargas doesn't know the annoying Spaniard from the cable car is a famous actor.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and everything from it does not belong to me, because I think it's illegal in some way for someone my age to own any sort of series as popular as Hetalia is.

**Note:** This is an AU story, which means it's set in an Alternate Universe, so I will be using their human names.

* * *

Running, running with the harness pulling me forward.

People talking to each other, talking on their phones, constantly talking.

A tug on the harness to my left, and a quick dash across the street to meet it.

Cars whizzing past, a horn blaring somewhere up the street.

Sirens screaming farther away, seagulls howling, a dog barking.

A breathless inquiry as to whether there was any room left.

A small girl, asking her parents about the strange man with the black glasses.

Someone got off, and a gracious thank you slipped from my lips.

Can't be late. Don't want to be late.

A large step up onto the platform, a helping hand grasping my elbow before I could fall.

Another thank you, a short trip to a bench.

Daan will be mad if I'm late... stupid bastard, living in Chinatown.

Gum on my shoe... it's sticking to the floor; _lovely_.

Why does he have to live in Chinatown?

The bell ringing, someone outside cursing they missed it. Unlucky bastard.

The steady movement of the cable car was familiar to me by now, but the constant chatter that filled it never ceased to annoy me. People would quiet down when I stepped on, as usual, but then the whispers would start, and conversation would resume soon after.

I was used to it, but that didn't mean I had to _like_it. The little ones, like that girl asking her parents about me, they didn't bother me. They were young. They were curious. They just wanted to know why I had my glasses and my dog. It was the older ones who should know better. And Christ, speaking of older...

The old people smell in the compartment of the car always set my mouth into a temporary frown, and the particularly fragrant woman sitting beside me didn't help matters any.

Personally I'd grown to like the smells of the city, disgusting though other people may have found them. Car exhaust, baked goods, coffee -and yes, the smells that issued from the sewers- all these told me I was still in familiar territory; _flat ground_.

The concrete jungle. My own little urban heaven. The city didn't change like the more rural areas did; there were not as many animals or trees here. No roots to trip over, no cars whizzing over a hill out of nowhere going much faster than they should be by all rights. Cities have sidewalks and traffic jams. It's easier this way. I like it. I'm used to it. I've been living in cities since I was 12, anyway. I'm just sort of glad they don't change all that often.

Always the same cable cars. Always the same schedules. The same drivers. Same announcements. Same routes. Same stops. Same costs. Same passengers. Same smells. Same… what the _flying fuck_kind of scent is that?

I smelled it at the same time my guide dog did, and I could feel her perk her head up, and I heard her nose sniffing at the air. The car had slowed to a stop perhaps a second earlier; I recognized the scents wafting through the wind now blowing into the cable car as baked and fried goods, and many of the voices outside were speaking Chinese, a language I'd learned to identify but not understand.

This other scent though... it was wrong in this location. Like high-end cologne. Nobody who was an anybody rode the cable cars. They smelled and they had too many people and there was never ever ever, no matter how early you got there, enough room for everybody. Well, except me; they _always_made room for me.

I knew people who wore expensive cologne. Really, I did. I mean, I wrote a fucking _book_. I _knew_ people. So it wasn't as though the scent was unfamiliar to me... it was just... in the wrong place. And I _hated_ it when things were in the wrong places. So did Whiskey, if the small whines escaping her slobbery lips every few seconds were anything to go by. _Damn_, I had to have a chat with that trainer. Whiskey was nowhere near as controlled as Rosemary had been.

The (okay, no need to be liberal here and say PERSON, he's wearing cologne, he's a _guy_) man wearing the scent dropped onto the bench beside me with a sigh, and I realized I'd been paying so much attention to identifying the foreign scent, I had completely missed my senior companion getting off the car.

Warmth rolled off my new bench-mate in waves, (God damn it all, why did he have to sit next to ME? Sweaty people are so _gross_...) and his manner of breathing almost sounded as though he'd just run a ways to get here. I listened intently for him to say anything as the driver went around scanning passes, but nothing aside from the usual beep came from the space beside me. The beep of the handheld scanning device told me had a pass, and not cash. So my cologne-wearing friend does this often, then?

Whiskey's harness tugged to the right in my hand, and I gasped as she practically unseated me to lurch towards the man sharing the bench with me. I heard excited, faster-paced sniffling sounds, and guessed Whiskey had gone for his crotch- as she was apt to do. "Oh," a male voice suddenly exclaimed from the direction of the cologne-bastard, as I'd decided to dub him. Damn new dog! She still needed to be broken in to my schedule...

"Shit," I cursed, tugging her back between my legs, and curling a hand into her fur to hold her in place. "Bad Whiskey. No."

"Oh no, that's alright!" cologne-bastard said from beside me, and I was surprised by the happy sounding voice he had. Here I'd been expecting some Chinese mafia boss or something, I don't know, dammit. But this man... well it sounded like he smiled a lot, that was for sure. He had a rich, lilting sort of voice, and was that a... Mexican accent? "Whiskey," he mused. "What a cute name!"

"She's a German Shepherd, she's ferocious, not cute," I deadpanned. I wasn't angry... so I didn't fully understand why I was already bordering on becoming frustrated with this man. The gum on my shoe might have had something to do with it... and my upcoming meeting with Daan probably covered the rest of it.

"Right, okay, not cute," the man agreed quickly, before chuckling a little. "But ah, why is she wearing that harness? And I thought they didn't allow dogs on cable cars..."

I turned towards the sound of his voice and gave my best impression of a _'How fucking stupid are you?'_face, hoping he would get the message. Maybe he hadn't noticed the sunglasses yet.

First a few seconds passed, and then a few more, with the chatter around us carrying on, the pair of us not paying any attention. Or, I wasn't anyway. But when the time spent in silence began bordering on a full minute, I finally blurted, "How fucking stupid _are_you?" out loud.

"Pardon?" he asked, sounding startled by my harsh words, and I could hear the confused frown that was certainly adorning whatever kind of face he had. I still couldn't decide what nationality he was. His accent was weird.

"I'm BLIND, you moron!" I snapped, causing the tourist-looking family (yes, I could HEAR that,) to stop their conversation on the next family car and shift down a few feet on the bench opposite ours. I ignored this. "She's my _guide dog_. Get it?"

"Oh!" cologne-bastard gasped, and there was the sound of something being dropped, and then fingernails scrabbling to retrieve it. "Oh, God, oh, I'm _so_sorry! I didn't even- Crap, how could I have just- Sorry!"

"Don't apologize for being an idiot," I sneered. "It won't fix your brain, dumb shit."

_Oh_... I flushed a little in embarrassment. Well I didn't mean to say _that_... I, uh, should apologize probably... But no, this was already awkward enough. I decided to leave it alone for the time being.

The pair of us lapsed into another pregnant silence (and the family resumed their car conversation), and before long the conductor was announcing the next stop.

I know this route like the back of my hand, but sometimes they add stops, and I sort of ignored inconsequential things like stops when this God-damned cologne-wearing ass-hole got on. And normally I'm fairly decent at determining what they say, but HELL if "Mphmmhph Nmph Mph Mmmph," is any road off California Street that I've ever heard of.

"What did he say?" I demanded of the oblivious bastard next to me, tugging sharply on his sleeve with my free hand to get his attention.

"Oh, that we're stopping in Nob Hill next," the stranger said with a distracted air, but he didn't sound altogether bothered by my previous chew-out of his mental capabilities.

"_WHAT?_" I screeched, causing both Whiskey and the cologne-bastard to jump in surprise. "NO! I needed to get off at Chinatown! I..." I trailed off as I remembered how this particular car worked. Nob Hill came after Chinatown on the uphill route, meaning I'd missed my stop when... "This is all _your_ fault!" I snapped, jabbing an accusing finger into the -Holy _shit_ he had muscles- chest of the man beside me. "You and your fucking cologne, distracting my dog! _Fuck you!_I have an appointment! Fuck if I want to try to walk downhill all the way back to Chinatown!"

"Whoa whoa whoa," the stranger said quickly, placing a placating hand on my right shoulder. "Calm down. You need to go to Chinatown? I can... I can walk you back that way, if you like! It's no trouble. And if I... ahem..._ d-did I do that?_Ah, if I distracted you when I got on, then this is the least I can do! Here let me help-"

"Don't touch me," I warned him darkly, elbowing him in the ribs when he tried to hold me by the elbow to help me off the cable car as it rolled to a stop. "I can fucking walk on my own, dammit!"

Now my bad mood was undeniable. This was just brilliant- first I leave the house late, then I have to sit next to some old lady on the cable car, I get gum on my shoe, and I miss my stop anyway for all my trouble. I was going to be late now, there was absolutely no way to avoid it.

I allowed Whiskey to lead me to the edge of the cable car, muttering darkly to myself the whole time about old women, bastards wearing fancy cologne and punks spitting gum in cable cars, and accepted someone's hand to help me step down -fucking shit _so_ high off the ground... _not_okay- before the German Shepherd was tugging me quickly out of the middle of the street.

True to his word, the -Mexican?- cologne-smelling man's steps echoed my own as I finally reached the sidewalk, and began my careful trek back towards Chinatown, San Francisco. I paid him little mind, choosing instead to focus on keeping my footing as we started down the steep hill, and tugging Whiskey's lead when she pulled just a little too hard.

"I don't need your fucking help," I snapped over my shoulder in the general direction I could hear the man following me from. "I can get there just fine by asking someone for directions."

"Oh, but it's no trouble!" cologne-bastard insisted quickly. "I don't really have anywhere else to be going. I'd really _much_rather accompany you. I would feel terrible if you fell over or something because you had to walk downhill because I made you miss your stop!"

"Dammit, you dumb bastard, I don't need your fucking help and I definitely don't need your God-damned sympathy." I hissed, straining to maintain my balance as Whiskey swerved to avoid someone else on the sidewalk. Using a guide dog was certainly faster than trying to walk around with just my pole, but I wondered sometimes if that wouldn't be the... _safer_method of travel. Whiskey was new and (VERY) excitable after all.

"Ah, right..." the man muttered awkwardly from behind me, and even over the sounds of the street I could hear the telltale sound of hair being mussed that signified a nervous ruffle of his hair. "Okay, I um... won't give you any sympathy then? Where are you going, so I can help you look for- ah, I mean, _find_it!"

"It's this certain apartment building," I said, sighing, but pulling out the piece of paper with the address scrawled on it that Feliciano had slipped into my pocket earlier that morning. "I know, I can't actually read that, my idiot brother read it to me this morning and gave it to me just in case. I have a meeting with this guy, so..."

"Oh! I know where this is!" cologne-bastard said triumphantly. "I used to have a dorm mate in college who was really serious about saving money, he moved out of the dorm and made me ship all his stuff to this building after the first semester because he said he couldn't stand the amount of money he was wasting by just being there. Odd guy."

"...what the _hell_...?" I wondered aloud, before dropping the subject with a decisive shake of my head. "Whatever. Well can you find the place or not?"

"_Sí_," he said, after a moment's silent deliberation. "I remember where it was. The postal service didn't let me mail some of his stuff because it was kind of illegal, so I had to drop it off in person. I was really just glad to have the room to myself again. He smoked a lot, and I think it was only a cigarette that once."

"Great," I said neutrally, not particularly giving two fucks about his old college roommate as Whiskey stopped abruptly, and I had to follow suit, knowing either that something had just gone wrong, or we had reached a curb.

The latter, evidentially, I decided, as Whiskey started walking again a few seconds later, and I took a hesitant step down about five inches from the sidewalk to the street. She pulled eagerly at the leather strap binding her to me, anxiously panting as I didn't cross the street fast enough for her liking. I was just trying to be careful; there were manhole covers and sewer grates in the road, and I really didn't want to face-plant and find out what asphalt tasted like.

A horn blared from somewhere a little behind me and to my left, and I jerked forward another quick step as my heart rate increased. A series of tremors ran down my spine as my ears tried to recover from the loud blast, and I was momentarily disoriented before regaining my senses and continuing to walk. I flipped off the general populace in the direction of the noise, and heard someone start to shout. My stomach dropped though, as an engine revved, and the telltale beeping sounds of the crosswalk's countdown disappeared.

"Whoa, look out!" the cologne-wearing man's voice exclaimed, and suddenly I was being shoved forward, two strong hands at my shoulder blades, steering me up the ramp at the corner of the sidewalk and onto safer ground. I almost stumbled at the change in incline, but managed to keep my balance by grasping at Whiskey's harness and leaning heavily on it for just a moment.

"What the fuck!" I shouted, flailing my arms wildly around where I thought his head would be, trying to smack him for shoving me. "What the _literal_fuck! You don't touch me! You-"

"I'm sorry, okay?" the voice snapped, from somewhere to my right now. "You were about to get hit or something!"

I paused, thinking for a moment -yeah, okay, _maybe_ I almost got hit, but that was no reason to steer me out of the road... um, _right_?- before responding meekly and continuing forward. "I was fine, bastard. Besides, I've only been hit _once_, I'm not expecting that to happen again. The bastard is in jail now anyway. Serves him right."

"What?" the stranger yelped, his voice still coming from my right. "Someone _hit_ you? _Dios mio_, what-?"

"Shut up, this isn't group therapy, I didn't come to talk about my problems with you," I bit off, managing to get slightly ahead of him, if the sounds of his rushed footsteps were anything to go by. "Now where is the fucking apartment?"

"Just another block," he murmured, voice more subdued now.

We lapsed into silence, and I couldn't exactly call it awkward or peaceful, because how the fuck peaceful can Chinatown EVER get, but it was a start, and a welcome change from this bastard's awkward-ass questions. There are some things the general populace just doesn't talk to blind people about. This guy was defying all those... unspoken rules.

I waited impatiently for Whiskey to stop me at the next intersection, and when she finally did, I turned my head from side to side, trying to take in all the sounds and smells to determine just where we had ended up.

I was so engrossed in attempting to discern the difference between this street and the entrance to Chinatown on California street, I didn't notice when the cologne-smelling man held an arm protectively behind my back while I crossed the street. When we reached the other side I realized it had been there and shrugged him off, walking forward again.

"Right here," the man said, from a few feet behind me, and I ground to a stop, whirling back around and allowing Whiskey to bring me to the man's side. "You know which room you need?"

"Yes, I know which room I need, bastard," I snapped, frowning, and hoping he would leave soon, and not ask why-

"Why does whoever you're meeting live here anyway?" he asked, innocence ringing clear in his tone though a curious edge was present as well.

"Now that really is _none_of your fucking business," I scowled in his general direction, before directing Whiskey to lead me inside, and leaving him standing on the street, none the wiser.

I walked forward hesitantly once inside the doors -glass, from the sound they made when they closed- and put a hand out hesitantly when Whiskey came to an abrupt stop. My fingers touched another door handle, and I tugged, trying to open it, and when that didn't work, I pushed, but got the same result. I pinched the bridge of my nose in frustration, sending my sunglasses riding up along my fingers an inch or so, before I sighed in exasperation. Last time I had been here -and the only time, for that matter- I had come with Feliciano... and there had been a keypad.

I felt blindly along the door's handle until I reached a wall, and then I pressed my way along it, finding the wall to be rounded, like the small lobby was ovular, searching for the keypad box. My left hand brushed something first, and I touched around the edges, finding it to be about six by six inches, and the number keys felt worn. I almost flinched away at the thought of how many people had touched, maybe sneezed, coughed, spit on these metallic buttons, but settled on cringing before focusing on trying to read the Braille bumps in the grooves.

Normally keypads go in the same order, and I knew it, but they also varied from arrangement to arrangement. There were those typica ones, with just the numbers, but then there were the ones with extra buttons, asterisks and such. This one didn't have the extra buttons, and the Braille was so faded I couldn't feel what any of the keys said. That could mean the asterisk was anywhere at the beginning or the end, and I figured there was a sign saying what to do to call a certain room, but there was no Braille beside it, so I didn't know what it said.

Frustrated, I slammed a fist against the wall, and then pressed my head to it, cursing for the thousandth time my own inability to see, and the world's inability to make everything accessible to my kind. How fucking hard could it be, really? Put some labels with some dots so we'll actually know what the hell is going on.

I dug around in my pocket for my cell phone, an old flip model we'd gotten and had modified with Braille after Feliciano lost me in the park a few years ago. I went to hit 1, Feliciano's speed dial, but paused, and dropped my forehead against the wall again. I would call Feliciano and... what? Ask him to tell me which buttons were which? Tell him to come press the buttons for me?

"Do you... need some help with that?" a hesitant, familiar voice asked from behind me. "I-I stayed just to make sure you got in alright, I promise, but um... you looked like you could use some help."

"Bastard," I muttered dejectedly, but made no move to stop him as he stepped beside me and -I assumed- observed the keypad.

"What room do you need?" he asked.

"B12," I sighed, reciting the room number Feliciano had told me Daan's was.

"Okay... asterisk, B... 12," he said, and I heard the small clicks of buttons being pressed, and then the dial tone echoed through the old speaker, tinny and crackling every few seconds.

"If this is Ramon, I already sold out of weed for the week, so you'll have to go somewhere else," Daan's voice, slightly warped through the line, echoed in the small space.

"It's me, bastard, and I don't want your weed," I snapped, before hesitating a moment. This stranger was still here, so... "I'm… Lovino. Remember? Feliciano is my brother. We had a meeting?"

"Right... uh, I don't remember who the fuck you are," he sighed through the line. "Can you come back later? I'm sniffing some kind of fantastic shit with some chick right now."

"_Fuck!_" I spat angrily, clenching a fist in my hair. "No, I can't _come back later!_ You promised me you'd pay me! Remember? My brother and I wrote that _thing_... that got you a lot of money! Remember? You started ranting about how much pot you could buy with your cut. I _need_that money!"

"Ohhhhhhh," Daan gasped, apparently recognizing me now. "You're that pissy Italian blind guy! You and your brother wrote that-"

"_YES!_Yes, that's me, you got it!" I shouted, trying to block out his words. I really didn't need this other guy finding out about the book... It was already so hard to keep it silent... I really didn't need some stranger from a cable car getting involved as well. "So the money! Where is it? Can I come up and get it?"

"No worries man, I put it in my mail slot. Figured you'd be by soon to get it. You're late, you know." I gritted my teeth, wanting desperately to be in punching range of the stupid Dutch asshole. I knew I was late, dammit. "Number B12! Oh and the key is at the desk. Just say B12 sent you and he should give it to you. Oh. And if you don't get the next one to me before Christmas, I can't promise you I can get it to the company on time for this year's list. You know what that means."

"What?! _Christmas?_" I practically shouted into the receiver. "Are you fucking insane? I can't get that written by-"

"Well you got _this_one in, didn't you? Just go get your money, man, you're killing my high. Mailbox. B12. Go have fun with it."

The line dropped then, and the dial tone buzzed steadily in the quiet space. Cologne-bastard pressed something and the noise ceased.

"Careless bastard," I muttered darkly to myself. "Can't just leave that kind of money in a mailbox..."

"That was my old college roommate!" he exclaimed, after a second's hesitation. "Daan. From the Netherlands! And he still smokes lots of things he shouldn't... How do _you_know him? And why does he owe you money?"

"That's _still_none of your fucking business," I growled, as a sharp buzzing sound ran through the speaker on the wall, and a click from the second set of doors informed me Daan had finally buzzed us in. "Why do you ask so many fucking questions?"

"Oh, well I-"

"That was a rhetorical question."

"Oh."

I pulled the door open, letting Whiskey lead me into the real lobby, and wrinkled my nose, disgusted with the scent of the place. Cigarette smoke, some other sort of smoking substance's smell, the typical piss scent, and the classic; vomit. I could hear loud music -oh dear God up in heaven, why did it have to be the Nyan cat song- playing out from some sort of tinny-sounding device, and guessing it was a phone or iPod, I stalked towards it, stopping as Whiskey sat, signifying I'd reached the desk.

I waited a few seconds for whoever was playing to look up from their game, but nothing happened. I could hear the man behind me fidgeting around while we stood, both awkwardly awaiting the end of whatever the fuck kind of game the person was playing. "Excuse me," I said evenly, waving a hand back and forth once to try to get their attention. The cologne-bastard had yet to correct me, so I assumed I was actually speaking to someone. But when no response came after a long minute of silence, I raised a fist and took a deep breath. "_EXCUSE ME!_" I shouted at the top of my lungs, and purely out of spite, slammed my fist down onto the desk as I did so.

I heard a loud exclamation of "Aiyah!" -definitely male, with a Chinese accent- from behind the counter, and there was a scrabbling noise for a moment as though I'd made him drop his electronic device when I startled him. "What the hell do you think you are doing, aru? You just scared the shit out of me! Don't fucking do that-"

"B12. The fucker who smokes illegal shit," I said, giving the concierge no further preamble.

"Lots of tenants smoke illegal shit here," the concierge pointed out. "He's the only one who sells it, though."

"I really don't care," I deadpanned. "Give me the fucking key he left me. NOW."

"Fine, fine! Jesus! Impatient bastard, aru!" he muttered darkly, and I could discern the sound of papers and wrappers being shuffled around inside a desk or shelf below the desk. "I can see why Daan didn't want you going up to his room to get whatever he's leaving you."

A curse word (or several) could be heard every few seconds, and once I thought I heard him muttering about a panda. I almost started praying right then and there that he hadn't lost the damn key. Then there was a clink, rather like metal on plastic, and a triumphant humming of something or other in Chinese.

"_You're welcome_, aru," the concierge called, sounding disgruntled.

A key was pressed into my open palm, and I closed my fingers around it possessively. Not daring to wait and see if he would think twice about giving it to me, I spun on my heel and followed Whiskey as she lead me away from the desk, and parallel to the door, heading left.

"The mailboxes are on the right, if those are what you're, ah, looking for," cologne-bastard piped up, an uneasy tone discoloring his usually happy tenor.

"...I knew that," I lied through gritted teeth, turning Whiskey around and heading in that direction instead.

She walked along the wall behind the desk for a time, and I ran my hand along it with her so as not to pass a corner unaware, and I stopped when my fingers brushed against cool metal instead of the cardboard-like wallpaper. I gently traced my fingertips along it until my thumb caught in one of the holes used to pull the mailboxes open, and then I moved downwards, searching for a keyhole.

"Here," cologne-bastard said from behind me, and I felt the warmth from his body grow much closer to mine, as though he was stepping close to my back. A tremor ran down my spine as I heard him shifting, just a few steps behind me, as I wondered just what he was doing. Large fingers closed around my hand, and guided it across the tiny metal mail slots until they reached one a few from the end on the opposite side. "_This_is B12."

"Th-Thank you," I murmured, my breath catching in my throat for some unknown reason before I cleared my throat to regain my composure.

I brought the key in my other hand up to the keyhole on the proper slot, and inserted it, after attempting to do it the wrong way on the first try. On the second, it slid in smoothly, and I twisted it to the right, and got a satisfying metallic-sounding click in response. I paused for a moment, deciding I really shouldn't let this other man see just how much money Daan was paying me, and promptly resolved to pull it out and pocket it as quickly as possible.

Opening the metal door swiftly, I jammed my hand inside the small compartment and curled my fingers around the wad of dollar bills, concealing them from the sight of my still-unnamed companion. I used my free hand to hurriedly unzip my coat pocket, and make sure it was empty before I stuffed the entirety of the money Daan owed my brother and I this month into the pocket, and jamming the zipper closed again. I turned around and aimed Whiskey in the general direction of the door, knowing she would get the hint and lead me there on her own after a moment or so anyway.

"That's it?" cologne-bastard asked, an undertone of surprise evident in his voice. His footsteps hastened to catch up with me as I pushed through the glass doors and back into the busy streets of Chinatown. "That's... was that your meeting?"

"Yes. Now if you could kindly _piss the fuck off?_" I snapped, not needing to see to know that he was surely sporting a dumbstruck expression. "Now I go home and you go back wherever it was you needed to go in the first place."

"I don't have anywhere to be, though," he said, before sighing, and beginning to tap the toe of his shoe against the pavement. "Can I walk you home?"

"No," I said flatly.

"Please?" he tried again.

"_No_."

"Alright," he said, letting out a dejected sigh. "I suppose I'll be off then... Walking around San Francisco _all alone_..."

"I guess you will, bastard. You have fun with that," I said, ignoring his obvious bid for company.

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, ah, how was it? :D Please drop a review and let me know if you see a mistake (Even though I had my personal Gilbert go through and edit it, they could still be in there) or see something I did wrong in regards to anything to do with being blind. I tried REALLY hard to research this, (*cough* half-assed the research, but for me that's a lot) but since it's based on the signs I kept seeing on all the public transportation in San Francisco saying that Guide Dogs (Apparently you can't call it a _Seeing Eye_ dog unless it's from a certain school? I think they copyrighted it. _Themoreyouknow_.) are always allowed on public transportation and you have to get up if "elderly or disabled" people want to sit up front. Also... I really want to know if this is worth continuing. I know I'm awful for not working on EITHER of my two other Spamano stories still in the process, but my plot bunnies are ADHD, and believe it or not I do better working on more than one story at a time.

**Note*** This is rated T for now, that could go up. I mean, Lovino swears a TON, so if I think it's getting ridiculous, I might bump it up to M... But I PROMISE, I will continue it, no matter how long the wait for the next chapter is. If I decide to discontinue it, I'll tell you all.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Haha yeah... it's been a while since I updated this, huh? I'm uh... really, REALLY sorry about that... ^.^;; um... Don't hate me? :D

Hetalia doesn't belong to me~!

* * *

There was a strand of hair protruding from his bangs, which curled into a tiny distraction, constantly drawing my gaze.

It angled to the left… although I suppose to him it was the right, and it was the color of rich mahogany, just like the rest of his hair.

I think it had to have been one of the most adorable haircuts I'd ever seen… and I was in the show business; I'd seen a lot of adorable haircuts.

The glasses though… I wondered why he wore those. They were big and bulky, and not like a normal pair of sunglasses. They were shaped to his face exactly, more like a pair of goggles than glasses, because glasses weren't shaped so that absolutely no light at all would leak in.

I wondered what color his eyes were… would they look pretty against his skin?

He was naturally tan, that much I could see, but for a naturally-tan person… he was unusually pale. Normally they used that to their advantage, to get more of a golden tan. His skin was just lightly tinted olive.

For someone so… blind, he had a fantastic sense of style. Not even what was "in-style" right now, just his own sort of style. I didn't know it was possible to pull something like that off on your own. Even though his entire outfit consisted of brands like Armani, Versace, Gucci and Prada, there was just something innately… him about it. Which was ridiculous, because I didn't know him.

A simple blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A white tank top beneath that, and a golden cross on a golden chain hung between the unbuttoned lapels of the shirt. A gray pinstripe vest fit his torso just tightly enough to be fashionable, with all the tiny gray buttons done up neatly.

A pair of black trousers contrasted with the tail of the blouse, which had become un-tucked in the back. They were a bit wrinkled down near his feet, indicating he was perhaps a bit too short to be wearing them the right way, but who was I to judge, in my baggy jeans? The trousers hung over the top of his shoes, which appeared to be a pair of Gucci loafers of some sort, with black lined fabric trailing up his foot before reaching the heel, which was encased in a black fabric with a light blue plaid pattern that matched his shirt.

The only thing I would have deemed missing from the ensemble would be the Rolex watch, but I realized even as I thought it that it would make a rather pointless addition, because he was blind, why would he wear a watch?

I watched him walk away from me back down the busy sidewalks of Chinatown, and idly wondered what I had done to make him turn me down. Normally whenever I asked people to do me favors they said yes right away. Francis says it's because I'm attractive, but Gilbert says it's because I'm famous. I'd like to think it's because I'm nice.

My phone went off in my pocket, playing the "I'm sexy and I know it," ringtone I had assigned to Francis' number, and I cursed, scrambling to pull it out of my jeans' pocket to answer it.

"¿Hola?" I asked hesitantly, already knowing why he was calling.

"Merde, you're late, Antonio!" Francis' voice hissed out of the speaker. "Why are you not here yet? We have to get the advertisements shot already, and you have a scene to do at five this afternoon. If I can't get the fake blood on an hour before shooting it looks too wet!"

"I know," I sighed, scratching at the wig concealing my chocolate-brown locks as I thought. "I met this guy on the cable car…"

A loud shriek resounded in my ear drum as Francis uttered something at an extremely high octave across the line, and I almost dropped the phone. I stumbled to catch it before it hit the cement of the sidewalk, and managed to snag it between two fingers, before hastily pressing it back to my ear, listening intently for anything in English as Francis began babbling in fluid French.

"L'amour!" he sighed dreamily, after a good minute, and I frowned, recognizing that much at least.

"No, Francis, it's not love, I just met him! I…" I started, protesting his instant conclusion.

"Non-sens!" he interrupted me, before I could finish the thought. "Love at first sight is real and you know it, don't be so oblivious Antonio! You wouldn't have mentioned him to me if he wasn't important, cher! Now. Tell me where you are and I'll direct you to the nearest cab hot spot, and you can take one of those to the beach we're shooting at. And you spill all the scrumptious details!"

"Ah, I'm in Chinatown," I said, resigning myself to Francis' eccentric reaction to my simple statement. "Right outside the apartment building you tried to hit on that Chinese guy with the long hair in? He hit you with a wok."

"Oh, THAT place," Francis said, and I could hear his sneer even through the static-filled line. "Oui, alright… You'll want to go out the California street way, and catch a cab up near Nob Hill. That's where the insane drivers don't go. The crazy ones are at the bottom of the hill; the rich don't tolerate driving at such speeds."

"That's where I got off the cable car with the guy," I said, perking up at the name of the stop I had meant to get off originally to lose the girl who'd been stalking me. "I wonder if he'll be on the cable car again…"

"Did he leave that way?" Francis asked, sounding as though his interest had been piqued. "Wait, you walked together to this apartment? Ack, explain this from the beginning!"

"Ah, okay…" I said, attempting to properly vocalize what had happened with the blind man on the cable car and avoid walking into a pack of tourists blocking the sidewalk at the same time. "Well, I got on the California Street car at the Chinatown stop, because there was a girl following me with a camera, I think because she figured out who I was. But I ended up getting a seat next to this guy, maybe in his early twenties, who was wearing sunglasses and he had a dog sitting between his legs!"

"Mon Dieu, I see where this is going," Francis groaned. "Toni, everyone knows sunglasses and a dog means the person is blind. Please tell me you didn't ask…"

"So I asked him why he had a dog on the cable car, and he told me I was stupid, and he was blind," I spoke over Francis' despairing tone. "And then we stopped at Nob Hill, only he started cursing at me because he said I distracted him, and he missed his stop and he really didn't want to walk back downhill to Chinatown, so I offered to go with him!"

"Why?" Francis gasped. "He sounds like a rude little bastard!"

"Because he was blind!" I exclaimed, gesturing madly in the air around me, causing a few Chinese ladies to duck beneath my outstretched arms and giggle madly at me once they'd passed. "I didn't want him to get hurt because of me! And I'm glad I went too, he almost got hit by a car! Infierno si no quería matar al hijo de puta en ese mismo momento!"

"Calm down, Antonio!" Francis said. "If you had killed someone your acting career would have been down the drain; you know that, don't you? Besides, why do you care so much? You just met him, and he sounds like an ass to me."

"Francis, he was blind! You don't honk at a blind person when they take a little longer than you'd like to cross the street! Actually; isn't that illegal? Either way, it's not right!" I fumed, my Spanish accent becoming more pronounced the more worked up I became. "He was just crossing the street, Francis! And I don't see anything wrong with him swearing so much. It seemed to me like a defense mechanism to make sure people kept away from him. If it worked when he was little, why wouldn't he keep doing it? If I was blind, I wouldn't want people clustering around me and telling me how sorry they were! I would want to live like anyone else!"

"Antonio, SHUT UP!" Francis shouted, finally making himself heard over the desperate rush of words I was using to explain my anger. "Nom de Dieu, you sound like an activist for the blind. Actually… you sound like Romano."

"Who?" I asked, finally simmering down from my rant. I glanced around and realized I had reached California Street once again, and blinked in surprise. I shrugged once before starting up the hill to the Nob Hill section of California Street, and hailing a cab with my free hand.

"Romano," Francis said, humming thoughtfully as though he was searching for something. "He wrote a book on what it was like being born blind. It was just published last Christmas. You're telling me you haven't read it? It's still on the best-selling list. I shall have to lend you my copy…"

"Oh, thanks Francis!" I exclaimed happily, shifting the phone to my other ear as I stepped into a cab that had pulled up to the sidewalk beside me, and closed the door behind me. "Francis, which beach am I going to again?" I asked, holding up a finger to the driver (who sighed in irritation) to indicate I would have directions in a moment.

"Ocean Beach, Toni, like I told you ten times this morning. The entrance on Great Highway, right near the zoo. Where would you be without me?" the Frenchman scolded me, and I heard him rummaging through something in the background.

"Ocean Beach, the entrance near the zoo, please," I told the driver, and he sped off. "What's that noise?" I asked, as a crash became audible through the speaker, and I winced at the sound.

"Oh, I'm at my place. I have the book here somewhere…" Francis sighed. "Damn, I hope that Swiss bastard didn't take it when he left with his sister…"

"But I thought I was late," I frowned, growing extremely confused. "Don't you need to be there too, for everyone's wardrobes?"

"I live across from Ocean Beach," Francis said patiently, and more shuffling of papers was audible through the line as he cursed in French for a moment before continuing. "It's a little over a six-hour drive from here to L.A., but I love this place and I can always get hotel rooms out there anyway."

"Oh," I muttered, and left him to his (rather loud) search for the book he was talking about. I noticed the cab turning onto Van Ness Avenue, and idly wondered why it wouldn't just go straight down, but shrugged to myself and left the cab driver to do as he liked. As long as I got to that beach in the next half an hour, I would probably be spared Gil's rant about the "unawesomeness" of being late.

"Aha!" Francis finally exclaimed, and I practically jumped in my seat. "I found it. Yes, I'll give this to you to read while I do the fake blood. And you can take it back to your hotel, I don't particularly care. I read it once; it really was quite fantastic, but I don't think I'd be able to read it again. It was a little... Poignant."

"Gracias, Francis," I said cheerfully, before he hung up, leaving the dial tone ringing in my ear, until I hung up on my own phone as well.

With a content sigh, I pulled the wig off of my head, and ruffled my hair to set it back to its usual messy -and chocolatey brown- state. The wig was tucked into my pocket, and I flipped open my phone to text Gilbert about my day.

Even though Gilbert was my director, he was also one of my best friends. Francis, Gilbert, and I had all gone to the same theater arts school for college, and Francis and Gilbert had been roommates, while I'd shared a dorm with Daan, the one who the blind man had collected his check from. I ended up spending more time in their room than I'd ever spent in mine, though. Until Daan moved out, that is- then I moved into their room officially, because they said I'd probably get sent to jail (or offered a job I didn't really want) if the college officials found what was growing in the bottom of the closet. (I swear I just thought they made pretty plants, that's the only reason I watered them every day!)

Ah, getting off track. Oops~ Gil said I needed to work on that... Um, so anyway! We were all three of us really lucky we'd ended up together once again. Gil was directing his dream movie, Francis was at his ideal job of being a makeup artist on a famous movie, and I was happy just to have a job, even if it was the lead role in the sequel to my last production with another director.

I'm also a tiny bit famous~ Haha it's a lot of fun sometimes... Like when I get to skip lines because everyone knows me from my movie... And then other times not so much. Like when girls far too young (and female) for me trail after me wherever I go and ask for autographs in explicit places I just don't want to see.

That's the third important thing you should probably know about me. I'm gay. Quite completely, actually. I've only dated one girl ever, (Bella- she was actually Daan's sister... Awkward) and I was in the fifth grade, so it didn't really count except for points with the other boys on the playground. And then for a long time... nothing. Until my first threesome with Francis and Gilbert in college, after which I never looked at a girl the same way again. But we try to keep that out of the public view for my safety. Nobody knows, because I've only told my closest amigos. And they wouldn't betray my trust like that.

…and then my phone made a pinballing sound, and I glanced down to find a text from Gilbert, my director. Oops, guess I opened the messaging system but never sent the text to Gil...

Gil The Awesome: Toni! You're late. Unawesome, man!

Me: Sorry Gil~! Got a little hung up on the cable car, fusososo~

Gil The Awesome: ...please tell me you didn't have sex on a cable car. That wouldn't be so great for ratings...

Me: Ay, no! I just met someone is all! We didn't- Gilbert! I'm not Francis!

Gil The Awesome: Kesesese of course not! So who is he? Is he hot? Are you bringing him to the set? If you are, he's just a fan, right?

Me: No... He went back to his apartment. It's a pretty long story. Ask Francis, sí? I'll be there soon, but Francis is across the street, so he'll be there sooner.

Gil The Awesome: Fine, be that way, leave your best friend in the dark, you heartless bastard!

Me: Oh, come on Gil, lo siento, but it is a long story, and my fingers will hurt if I try to type it all out!

Gil The Awesome: Hmm. Excuses excuses. But fine, make me- Ooh, there's Francey Pants, I'll go ask him now~

Me: That's the spirit~ I'll be there soon, promise!

With a contented smile, I hit the lock button on my phone, and gazed out the window, before becoming instantly lost in thought about the blind man again.

* * *

Later that evening found Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, actor, in his home, which would be considered small to any other actor, but was simply homely to him. His director Gilbert couldn't get a hold of him, nor could his stylist Francis, because while both of his phones rang off the hooks, Antonio himself was already preoccupied. Under the covers of his -rather extravagant, or so he thought- king-size bed, he lay on his stomach absorbing page after page of a still-best-selling novel, leant to him by his stylist earlier that day. The cover showed a picture of a dark silhouette facing the side and wearing a pair of bulky glasses, and the author's name resided in the figure's shoulders, reading only, in white letters, "Romano."

Meanwhile, across the city, in his small flat, which he lived with his younger brother in, Lovino Vargas sat running his fingers repeatedly over the unmarked keys of his keyboard, and then over the reference chart his brother had typed up for him in Braille so he would know which keys were which. It wasn't helping very much.

For every time he played back what he'd written using the special program they'd had to buy so Word would vocalize the text, it would begin to read and make sense for a sentence or two, before descending into a spiral of "Aducnekdog," and "kvhevcockazl," and other illegible phrases which he hasn't intended to type.

After the third attempt at writing a simple tripping scene, Lovino slammed his head against the keyboard and cried out in disgust, because typing as a blind person really shouldn't be so difficult, and why wouldn't that rubber keyboard Braille guide arrive yet, so he would be able to identify the keys? He despaired over the fact that his editor needed the next book before Christmas, he despaired over possibly having to find a new one, and he despaired over the fact that his brother was out on a date with that stupid muscular German next door.

And most of all, he despaired over the amount of money his editor was giving him, and the fact that while it was more than enough to hold them over for years as they were, or even to buy a completely new house and start over, he had no other income, and it would be suspicious if he was suddenly found to be spending up to a million dollars a month.

But more than all of that, he wished. He wished that he could just tell the world that he, Lovino Vargas was Romano, the world-famous author, whose book was already being published in fifteen different languages, and would be published in twice as many by the spring.

Then he would be able to get a decent editor easily; they'd be lining up around the corners to work for him. Then be would be able to get a bigger house, and would have the time to learn it. Then Feliciano wouldn't have to work so hard at that German's stupid restaurant to make Lovino's book money seem like his income, when in reality he made next to nothing. Then Lovino could work on this stupid second book without worrying about Whiskey feeling cooped up in this tiny apartment or Feliciano feeling resentful -not that he would, of course, perfect as he was- or even making the trips to Chinatown to collect his money from a druggie, and being stalked by strange men who smell like expensive cologne on the trolley.

* * *

**A/N:** There you have it! Chapter two! Finally!

Sooooooo... yeah. Life happened. So I'm really sorry about the wait, but I promise I'll try really hard to keep updating this and all the rest of my stories as frequently as possible. For example, Kidnapping Tomatoes- I'll have another chapter of that up soon too! The problem is that I have this stuff like half written (or like 99% written which is even MORE frustrating), and then I don't like what it's doing, and then I get distracted (Ooh, shiny~!) and then I work on other things. Like Christmas presents for my friends because I really can't do anything but write! And there's the slight problem of college... which is looming. And anyone who's been/will be going knows that the planning process is no fun. So between that, my two AP classes (homework over break- those evil bastards!), family drama (my ENTIRE FAMILY is completely insane), and sexuality drama, I've been quite the busy little bee. But this morning I got the email about a review from Anon Panda, and remembered I had this almost done anyway~! It was going to be a tiny bit longer originally, but I figured I didn't need to write out Antonio getting there and get the book from Francis and start reading it on-set if I could just have him start reading it at home later, ya know?

Well, anyway, I'm really sorry for the wait, I'll try to do better now, and I'm really not giving up on this story~! I really love it. So lucky you all, I have the next chapter planned out, so now all there is left to do is to write it! And that shouldn't take so long if I stop procrastinating and finish my stupid AP homework already...


	3. Chapter 3

"_Fratello_?"

Rubbing irritably at the bridge of my nose, I sat up and felt around. My back was sore, and my face was tingling. Shit. I'd fallen asleep at the computer again, hadn't I?

Either way, from the echoing steps and crinkling of plastic, it sounded like Feli was finally home, and that he'd bought groceries while he was out. I couldn't tell if it was morning or night still, because when I'd been writing last -earlier this?- night, he hadn't been home. He could have stayed over the German potato's house last night after seeing I was still out getting this month's pay... But that wasn't like him at all. It must still be night.

"In here, Feli," I called, rising from the computer chair and starting to my left, where I knew the kitchen was.

"Oh, there you are, ve," Feliciano sighed, sounding relieved, and seconds later I felt his hands on my arm, before he then guided me into one of the kitchen chairs. "I'm sorry I was gone all last night, Lovi, I had to help Ludwig clean up the cafe after my shift, and he invited me to stay over his place after we were done. Tino couldn't come in because he and Berwald adopted that new baby and it wasn't feeding, and Heracles said he couldn't walk today, I have no idea why, so he couldn't come, and the kitchen was just such a mess, and I was so tired, and I tried to call but you weren't answering so I figured you had fallen asleep..."

"It's okay, Feli, I get it. I was trying to write anyway. I got this month's pay, though. It's in my coat pocket."

"Oh, really? _Grazie, fratello_! I'm so sorry I couldn't come with you..."

"I know, Feli, I know." I cut him off before he could sound any guiltier. I didn't need him guilt-tripping himself now. As much as I loved my brother, I didn't care THAT much about his feelings. I just really, really didn't want him to start crying. Something about Feliciano crying just sits wrong in my gut. "So what's in the bags? Did you buy more ingredients for your special pasta?"

"_Sì_, I did..." Feliciano trailed off, sounding distracted. "Did everything go alright? Whiskey didn't give you any problems, did she?"

"No, Whiskey was fine. Although, some bastard on the subway practically stalked me there. He helped a little bit, I guess. I didn't have any problems. But... Daan wants the next manuscript by Christmas."

"He what?!" Feliciano exclaimed, and I could hear a box of something fall from his hands to the floor. From the sound, loud, a bit sharp, and with residual tiny clatters afterwards, pasta. Elbows, if I wasn't mistaken. And I normally wasn't mistaken. "We'll have to hurry, then... _fratello_, have you thought of an idea yet?"

"No, I'm working on it," I sighed, resting my head on my arms, which I had crossed and leaning on the table. "There's nothing else to write about. We covered everything!"

"Well..." Feliciano started. "Not everything, ve..."

"Feli," I growled. "You know I can't write about that."

"But why not?" My younger brother pouted, and I could hear the higher pitch in his voice that signified him beginning to tear up. "Love is love, fratello! I-I don't understand why everyone can't see it that way! Just because you're..."

"Just because I'm gay, I can't write about what it's like for blind people to date. Because then it changes from a book for the public on what it's like to be blind to a book for gays and allies on how to date a gay blind person. And that won't sell."

"But it would sell! You said it yourself," Feliciano insisted, optimism saturating his tone. "It will sell because it's the sequel to your first book! And then some people will dislike it, but a lot of people will read it anyway and be neutral, or be happy for Romano! They won't even know it's you!"

"And what if they found out, huh? What if they put two and two together and figured out it was me and this guy, whoever he would be. Then it would be dangerous! Or... well... No, no I'm not even dating anyone! And you know how hard it is for people like me to get a date, and being gay on top of it? It will never happen in time, Feliciano. Just give it up."

"I won't," Feliciano insisted, a fiery determination in his voice. "I won't give up. I'm telling you, it will sell. Even if not for the same reasons."

"But I want it to sell for the same reasons," I sighed. "I want it to sell because people don't know what people like me have to fucking go through, and they want to learn."

"Well then it is the same, because you'll be doing that and you'll be writing about what gay people go through! Twice the education value, and love is _love_, _fratello_! Didn't you tell me that when I started getting made fun of for being gay in high school? 'Just ignore them, because love is love, Feliciano.' That's what you said, ve! Can't this one just be about YOU? The first one was about being blind! Now everyone is interested in you. Can't you write this one so they can get to know Romano?"

"I'm going out," I snapped, rising from the table, and feeling my way along the wall until I reached the hallway, uncertain of where Feliciano's grocery bags were placed on the floor. Once in the hallway I hurried my pace, heading towards my room.

Once my hand brushed the doorknob I grasped it and pulled it open, and proceeded into my room, to collect my fleece and my cane, which I'd need. Sitting in the park for a while usually calmed me down, so I'd do that.

"Remember, _fratello_, I have a lunch break today, so Luddy and I will come and get you in the park, at the usual time, alright? Please don't forget to have breakfast, because it's nine already. And... be careful, ve."

"I know, Feliciano," I grumbled, as I made my way back through the kitchen and to the door out of our apartment. "I will."

* * *

Christmas. I had to get Daan the next book by Christmas. It was impossible. The first had been done by last Christmas, sure, but that was because I'd started Feliciano typing it up the summer a year before that.

We just wrote as inspiration came; an asshole on the train, a mistake at the grocery store, a small thing I'd noticed that everyone else had missed. Small things, but things everyone else would find interesting. We answered every question a friend had ever asked me about my lack of sight. So now... What else was there to write about?

Except for that idea. I wouldn't go there. There had to be more out there.

It had been hard enough for me to come out to everyone close to me the first time... And to make Romano come out to the world? No, it wasn't appealing. The world didn't know Romano personally, and wouldn't care about his feelings. On the other hand, my mother, brother, friends, they knew me, Lovino, and knew how much of a challenge it had been for me to tell them at all. The world wouldn't respect it as much. I knew it was going to hurt if I did it.

I sighed, rested my chin in my hand, and placed my elbow on my knee for support. I counted the wooden slats beneath me in the park bench I currently sat upon. Smooth, hard, warm. A chilly wind nipped at my cheeks as I sat, huddled and shivering in a fleece coat, even though I was sitting in the sun. But that was just how it was, living on the shore. Seagulls screeched, engines purred. People talked, talked talked talked. Everyone was always talking. I could hear their footsteps as well, certainly, but whether it was the sharp click of heels or the soft scud of shoes, the general crowd never stopped talking.

I froze when a familiar voice stood out from the rest. It wasn't Feliciano; no, I was waiting for him, he said he'd meet me at the park, but not for another fifteen minutes, at least. He and his stupid macho potato German boyfriend would get off this shift and meet me for lunch. This wasn't the German's voice, either, though. This one was less familiar to me, but I would probably never forget it.

"_Sí, sí, yo sé. Lo siento._ If I had known you were going to worry this much, I would have called sooner! ...yes, I'm still alive, I've just been reading. ...hey, that's not nice, I can so read!"

My heartbeat quickened, and I turned away from the sound of his voice and leaned down to pet Whiskey, at my left side, praying he'd walk right past me and not notice me. From the crunch of gravel underfoot and the way his voice sounded louder and louder as the seconds slipped by, I guessed he was walking the same path I had to find this bench.

"Oh, _sí_, I love it. It's fascinating to read. I'd love to see a movie of it too, actually... Er, from an omniscient perspective, naturally. _Sí_, it would be a little hard to shoot a movie from the perspective of a blind person. Fusoso, no, not just because I don't want to finish the book. I finished the whole thing last night! Er, this morning, I suppose. At five. ..._sí_, I stayed up all night reading it. Aren't you glad I don't have a shoot today?"

Whiskey perked up, and I purposely shielded my face with my hand as the steps crunching in the gravel grew steadily closer. I bet she recognized the scent of his rich-ass cologne again.

"_¿Qué?_ Fusososo, no, I haven't bedded him yet, I haven't even seen him again since... Oh! Uh- can I call you back?"

"Fuck," I muttered, drawing my coat tighter about my body, and pulling Whiskey to her feet, intending to flee. The pause indicated he'd seen me. Seen me, recognized me, intended to stop and chat. The bastard. Why else would he stop talking in the middle of his damn phone call?

"Hey! Wait up, _por favor_! Can I talk to you?" The man from the cable car called, and I stopped where I stood, sighing resignedly and turning around.

"No. What do you want?" I snapped.

"Oh, well I just wanted to talk with you... maybe get to know you a little!" He exclaimed cheerfully. But I was pleased to hear he sounded at least a little put out.

"And I wanted to have the boo- ...project I have due for my company done already, but that hasn't happened either. Life sucks."

"The one Daan told you about, right?" the man asked. "Over the intercom. Due by Christmas, right? Is it a difficult project?"

He sounded so innocently curious. It startled me so much, I actually forgot to be angry with him for existing for a moment.

"Harder than you could even imagine," I murmured. "But I can't work on it anyway, because I don't have any more inspiration."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No!" I snapped, because that tended to be my reflexive answer to a lot of things. "I mean... Well... No. Er, never mind. It's as stupid as you."

I bit my lip. Why had I even hesitated? Of course there was nothing he could help me with. I didn't want to have him help me. I didn't even want to be around him and his stupid confusing accent and his fancy-ass cologne! ...Right?

"No, I'm sure whatever it is it's a great idea!" He exclaimed, and I heard the creak of the bench as he sat down on it. "Please, can I help? I have the day off, and nothing else to do~"

I sighed, and ran a hand through my hair. This could either end very badly, or very well. But with my luck, it would definitely end badly. What did this creep want with me anyway?

"Are you stalking me or something?" I demanded suddenly.

"What?! No! I mean, I was hoping I would get to see you again, but I wasn't following you! I don't know where you live, I swear!"

"Well seeing as there's no way I can prove that, and I'm stuck here until my stupid brother shows up..." I frowned. "Fine. There is one thing you can help me with."

As I sat back down on the bench beside him, and let Whiskey strain at her harness to try to stuff her nose between his legs again, he cooed at her, and I sighed for the second time. I would probably regret this later...

"I... I just need you to tell me what... colors are." I muttered, half hoping he hadn't heard me.

"Eh?" He asked, and I could hear the groan of wooden slats beneath him that signified his straightening up in his seat. "Well... the primary colors are red, blue, and yellow, and..."

"No, not what they ARE, idiot," I snapped. "What they look like! I was born blind, I don't know what colors are. I've tried asking my brother, but he just gives me shit answers of what the colors look like, when I've never seen anything IN color, so obviously, it doesn't... really... work."

"Hmm..." He mused. "So if I said red is like the sunrise, that wouldn't help you much, would it?"

"Not in the slightest." I deadpanned.

"Well, then... Um, let's start with a simple color, like... brown! Brown is... dirt. Brown is wood, and... Barbecue sauce, chocolate, erm, feces, and... Well, it's mostly chocolate. That's a good thing to think of brown as. Like my hair! That's brown. Um, well, normally it is."

"Normally?" I frowned. "What...?"

"Um, next!" He interjected, his voice suddenly higher in pitch. Was that nervousness I detected in his tone? "Your hair is brown too, you know, but it's also a little closer to red than mine." Having worn sunglasses most places outside my home for my entire life, I recognized the sound of him lifting his from his face to... yes, there it was, the telltale sound of him adjusting his glasses and scratching his nose. A nervous habit, from my experience with people in general.

"Red... Red is a rose. It's the silky smooth of the petals, and the blood drawn from the prickly thorns. It's the metallic twang of blood in your mouth, and the warmth of a heartbeat pumping blood through your body. It's a part of the sunrise, and is often related to Christmastime. Watermelon. Cherries. Strawberry. Tomatoes!"

"Okay..." I said, mentally compartmentalizing everything he said.

It was easy enough to remember, and even if I couldn't, I at least had a way to guide Feliciano now. The tastes, smells, feels of the things of the colors I was asking for. Begrudgingly, I admitted to myself that this guy was doing a remarkable job of explaining color so far. Better than anyone else had, at least.

"And how about green?" He pressed on. "Green is... the grass beneath your feet, it is the smell of plants, and the feel of the leaves. Green is peppermint and spearmint flavored candies and mint flavored... What's that strange _helado_ called? Ice cream, gelato... No, sherbet! Mint sherbet. Green is basil... mint, rosemary and thyme... um, parsley and oregano and... lime!

"Purple is... the chill of twilight, the sweet taste of grapes. It's a perfect mix of the caliente y frio, the hot and cold of red and blue. It is smooth, it is simple, it is royal, it's fancy. I think royals in ancient times used to use beetle juice to dye their robes purple because it was expensive and rare. It's usually just a rich color, _un color rico_, even though it's a little feminine.

"Speaking of feminine, how about pink... Um, pink is cotton candy. Bubble gum. A lot of candy. Um... Carnations. Those come in a lot of colors, but think of the smell. Mix red and white and you get pink. Lipsticks and chap sticks are usually pink... Cherries are red but they taste a bit like pink... And... I think that's it. A lot of fruit is red, not pink.

"White... White is... snow. Fresh fallen snow, white rice, sugar, salt, and... Paper! That has a smell... Oh, and marshmallows! And marshmallow fluff. I love that stuff...

"What's left? Oh, yellow. Yellow is the sun's shining rays, the heat on your cheek and what lights the day. Yellow is the sour taste of lemon and the smooth creamy one of butter, in addition to cheese. It is the sunflowers in the park, it is the banana, it is the dandelion.

"And... Orange. Orange is... the heat of flames and the sunset, orange is... the tang of OJ in the morning. It's orange, mango, and sharp cheddar cheese. It is the cooked cheese on a pizza and peanut butter, I guess... A lot of nuts are orange too, but the flavor of an orange is definitely the best way to describe the color itself."

"What about blue?" I asked. "My brother always talks about his stupid German b... friend's blue eyes like they're something special."

"Well, blue is... Blueberries. They're really blue. They taste blue too, I suppose. Blue raspberry flavoring? Um... Winter mint gum. The winter chill. Chlorinated pools. I don't really know a lot that's blue. But I'm sure your brother's friend's eyes are very nice. If you were wondering, mine are green. People have said they're like emeralds, but I think they're more like football fields."

"Football?" I asked skeptically.

"European football!" He hurried to specify. "I don't like this American version of rugby they try to call football."

"Well, at least you have good taste in sports," I smirked. "But, you still haven't done black."

"Black... ah, well, dark, but that probably doesn't mean much to you... What's black? Uh... leather, leather is black usually, and... licorice! You've had black licorice, right? Not the red stuff, that kind sucks, it's like rubber. The really flavorful licorice. That's black. And I can't actually think of anything else..."

"My sunglasses, right?" I offered. "I get that fucking stupid observation often enough."

"_Sí_, those are black too," he said, and I heard his tone of voice change as the corners of his lips came up in a smile. "I like them. They suit you, you know."

"_G-Grazie_," I blushed, slipping into Italian as I was not used to that kind of compliment from anyone, let alone a man with such a nice, attractive -as I only realized now- voice. "Oh, sorry, it means-"

"Thank you. I know," I could still hear the smile in his tone. "Spanish is my first language~! That and Italian are really similar, sometimes."

"That explains your weirdass accent," I murmured.

"Sorry?" He asked. "I missed that.

"Never mind," I said.

A silence descended onto a pair of us, although I was surprised to realize it wasn't awkward, it just was. And when he started humming some sort of tune beside me, I just listened, and didn't bother complaining about it like I would have had it been Feliciano. The tune was unfamiliar to me, but I felt like I might have heard it playing somewhere before. But then, that could have been anywhere. I could often hear people's music from their headphones when they walked past me, from the movie theater when I was walking past that, from doors left open to welcome people on the street.

"Ve, it's good Gilly finally got a hold of him though, right?" My brother's obnoxious voice floated up to me from the gravel path, to the right. Steadily approaching footsteps soon accompanied it.

"_Ja_... Although why he felt the need to bother me to tell me about it, I don't know. I wonder about my brother sometimes, but I suppose being a director, that's just how he is. The artistic type, and all." A grumbling, deep German voice contrasted with my brother's higher-pitched, slightly scratchy tone, with a very different accent. Ludwig. The potato bastard, to me.

"_Sì_, but artistic types are the most fun~!" Feliciano giggled. "Like _fratello_! Hi, _fratello_! Oh! Who's your friend?"

"He's not my friend," I snapped, rising from my seat on the bench, and allowing Whiskey to lead me over to where my brother stood on the gravel trail with his boyfriend.

At the same time, the man beside me stood, and I presume he extended his hand for Feliciano to shake, because then he said, "Hola~! You must be Feliciano! He's talked a lot about you. I bumped into your brother on the cable car yesterday, and helped him pick up something from his boss~! It must have been fate we met again here, today!"

"Oh! Well it's a pleasure to meet you, ve, _Signore_..." Feliciano trailed off, waiting for the man to give his name.

"An- Fernández... Just call me Mr. Fernández, ahaha," he laughed nervously. I heard the ruffle of hair, another nervous habit. What was up with this guy?

"Do I...?" Ludwig started to ask, then I heard the jingling of his dog tags that meant he had shaken his head. "No, never mind. I'm Ludwig. It's nice to meet you, Mr. Fernández."

"Fusososo, the pleasure is mine," he chuckled, although I didn't miss the nervous tone still underlaying his words.

"We're going for lunch now?" I asked, and as I thought about it, my stomach rumbled, reminding me I had forgotten to eat breakfast after all, and lunch sounded like a great idea. "Is the potato bastard coming?"

Ludwig sighed, but said nothing, already used to my nickname for him. "Feliciano and I have the next hour off, so yes, we were coming to pick you up and go somewhere. Would... er, Mr. Fernández, would you like to join us?"

"Oh, no, that's quite alright," he interjected quickly, laughing nervously again. "I was going to meet another friend somewhere else anyway. I hope you three have a good lunch!"

"_Grazie, Signore_ Fernández~" Feliciano chirped. "You too!"

"Ah, _¡gracias!_" The cologne bastard chuckled. "I'll see you around then, I guess,"

"Hopefully not," I grumbled, but extended my hand for him to shake anyway.

He gripped it firmly and shook once, clasping it in his other hand too before releasing it, and I shivered slightly, internally. Those were large, strong hands.

We had walked about ten paces back towards the entrance to the park before Ludwig's footsteps stopped, and Feliciano ground to a halt with him. "Luddy? What is it?" He asked.

"Fernández... Isn't that the name of the man you called about the riding therapy? It looked like him, didn't it?" The potato bastard asked slowly. "I think it is... Is he...?"

"Oh!" Feliciano gasped, and I heard him take off back down the gravel path, leaving me holding Whiskey's harness and listening carefully for him, confused. What riding therapy? "_Signore, Signore!_" Feliciano's voice faded off into the distance of the park, and I scowled. Leave me with the macho potato, would he?

"What the fuck are you both on about?" I demanded, directing my words at the German beside me. "Riding therapy? What's that?"

"Erm... I don't think Feliciano wanted me to tell you," Ludwig said, and shifted where he stood.

We stood in awkward silence for another two minutes before I heard Feliciano's footsteps running back this way, and I turned to face him.

"I got it," he panted, smiling from ear to ear, from the sound of his voice. "I got his business card! He said he volunteers on weekends!"

"What business card?" I snapped. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, nothing," Feliciano smiled, before latching onto my arm again, and turning me back towards the park exit. "So what do you want for lunch today, ve?"

* * *

**A/N:** Disclaimer, Hetalia isn't mine. You know the drill. And... I know, I know, I'm sorry it took so long, everything has just been INSANE lately. Midterms, course selection, college shit, gay/not gay drama, all this shit I can't even. I appreciate that ya'll have been so patient (Not that you have a choice) and I'm sorry my chapters are so short T_T I'm just DYING under the workload I have right now PLUS extracurriculars which I need to get into college and worthless stuff (like National Honors Society) which my parents INSIST I do and I HATE it and it leeches time and life and SATs soon and its like _ohmigodjustkillme,it'llbeeasier_. The state the college I'm looking at right now just got given a D+ for education, I'm freaking out, AND drowning in calculations for what I actually have to take next year because course selection is FINAL once we do it initially this year, AND literally going to bed at 6 pm and waking up at 3:30 because I just can't deal with my family but I have to do my homework to keep my grades up and it's like UGH. I'm sure some of you understand. And the rest of you... IT SUCKS. T_T

Also, sorry this chapter was kinda boring... most of it was about the colors and stuff. I thought of that and figured it would be cool to write out. But this chapter sets up next chapter, any guesses what's gonna happen~?

BUT, Yay for you guys, I already have the dialogue for next chapter written. Now just to check grammar, do punctuation, and add this little thing called plot. Thanks a bajillion to my best friend, my Antonio, who knows SO MUCH MORE about the topic of next chapter than I do, and walked me through it all. In an RP. But I think you guys have gathered by now that my writing isn't as shitty as other people who're all "Hurr durr, I did an R-Pee with my bestest friend EVAR and we posteded it and it was liek urh mah gurhd so I ope u enjoy leminsssss because I'm twelf years old and totilly know how to rite secks." No. Just no. On every level, no. I use full words spelled correctly, thanks. So... just know it won't affect my quality. Seriously. I change up what she says when it isn't perfect anyway, because it's just for inspiration. It'll be like madlibs. Fill in the blanks. Except I'll be that OCD kid who makes it make perfect sense the way it's supposed to.

...and I'm sorry for wasting the valuable seconds of your life you just spent reading all that.


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